


Pretty Boy

by grammarpolice



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Appendicitis, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Person, Brotherly Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Comfort, Crying, Dialogue Heavy, Dustin Henderson is a Good Friend, Explicit Language, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan Byers & Steve Harrington Friendship, Kinda, Post-Season/Series 02, Protective Billy Hargrove, Protective Dustin Henderson, Protective Jonathan Byers, Sick Steve Harrington, Sickfic, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Vomiting, Whump, Will Byers & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22149712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarpolice/pseuds/grammarpolice
Summary: “The fuck do you want?”Up close, Billy Hargrove isn’t as monstrous as Dustin imagined.“I need your help.”Billy snorts with jagged teeth and cracked lips and breath that’s sour and hot with smoke. “Is that a fucking joke?”
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers & Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson
Comments: 140
Kudos: 419





	1. Chapter 1

“The fuck do you want?”

Up close, Billy Hargrove isn’t as monstrous as Dustin imagined.

He doesn’t have fangs or red eyes, or black stained teeth that curl behind bloodied lips. He isn’t eight feet tall, all hairy and mutated and vile, with bones that shift beneath his skin and fingernails that spear at the end. He doesn’t melt from the rainwater pattering onto the dirt and onto the sidewalk, nor does he contort his wrists this way and that to make the thunder growl.

If anything, Billy Hargrove looks nearly human up close.

His face appears gaunt and sunken, skin darkened and creased just below his eyes. A thin cut sits above his left eyebrow, crusted over with a deep red. He slouches in the doorframe, the small of his back pressed against the wooden paneling.

Around a cigarette, he says, “Maxine isn’t here.”

Dustin straightens up because although Billy Hargrove isn’t entirely monster, he isn’t quite human either.

He’s a different breed, one who picks his teeth with femurs, and buries empathy and remorse beneath gelled over curls and an indifferent smirk. His breed hides behinds defiance and rage because they are the guardians of uncertainty. His breed isn’t as malice or as evil or as venomous as he makes it seem. 

And Dustin isn’t sure why, but up close he can see right through Billy Hargrove.

“I’m not here for Max.”

Billy takes a puff of his cigarette, then holds it between his pointer and middle fingers. He glances down at Dustin. “Then what, dipshit?”

“I need your help.”

Billy snorts with jagged teeth and cracked lips and breath that’s sour and hot with smoke. “Is that a fucking joke?” He puts the cigarette back in his mouth and lets it hang from his tongue.

Dustin says, “No.”

“And I would help you because…?” He raises his eyebrows, pushes himself from the doorframe, and plucks the cigarette from between his teeth.

“‘Cause you’re not a total dick.” Dustin pauses for a moment, then adds. “At least, I don’t think you are.”

Billy smirks, then cackles again. “I gotta tell you, kid, I’m actually kind of impressed. Takes a big man to say that to me.” He narrows his eyes. “Now get the fuck off my porch before I rip your eyes out.”

“Wait, Billy—”

“I mean it, asshat. Remember what I did to Harrington?”

Dustin nods, then says,“He’s on your lawn.”

Billy blinks. “What?”

“He was driving me home and he looked, like, really bad, all sweaty and stuff, but he said he was fine and I didn’t really believe him, but he told me that if I didn’t drop it I was walking the rest of the way home and it was raining so I didn’t say anything, but then the power went out so that meant the street lights and all the house lights went out too, and then all we had to see with were Steve’s headlights, but then he started to look really sick so I told him to pull over, and he didn’t listen, but then his stomach started to hurt really bad, so then he finally pulled over, then we got out of the car, and then I think he threw up, then I recognized your Oldsmobile in your driveway so I told him to sit on your lawn while I got help and—”

“Jesus, kid, take a fucking breath.” Billy licks his thumb and index finger, pinches the head of his cigarette between them, and tosses it in a bush. “So he’s sitting on my lawn?”

Dustin nods. “Please, help me, Billy. I know you hate him, but I don’t know what else to do.” He swallows down a knot in his throat because he will absolutely not cry in front of Billy Hargrove.

Billy sighs and rolls his eyes. He steps forward and down the porch in white socks, grumbling as rain splatters onto his hair and down his face.

“You don’t have shoes on.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?”

Steve is laying in the same position Dustin left him, sprawled out across the grass, arms wrapped around his abdomen. His face contorts into a grimace, hair and clothing plastered to his skin with rainwater. His cheeks are flushed red, raw eyes calloused over with sheen.

“Get the fuck off my lawn, Harrington.”

Steve groans. “This doesn't look like help, Dustin.”

“If you’re still laying here when Neil gets home, he’s gonna start bitching and I’m gonna fucking break your skull.”

“Watch your language around the kid.”

“I’m sure he’s already corrupted enough from hanging out with your sorry ass.”

Steve coughs, then winces. “Fuck,” he whispers. Then, he turns to Billy.“We don’t need your help. We’re leaving, Dustin, come on.” He pushes himself into a semi-seated position, grunts, then stands up. “Where are my keys?” He wavers on his feet, and Dustin grabs his forearm.

“Yeah, good fucking luck getting anywhere,” Billy sneers.

“Watch me.”

Billy shrugs, plucks the keys from the grass, and tosses them to Steve. It’s not a hard toss—not like Dustin would have imagined it would be— but the teenager still fumbles with them before steadying them in his palms.

“Go ahead,” Billy says. “If you can walk from here to your car, then do whatever the fuck you want. But you’re leaving the kid here.”

Steve snorts. “No way.”

“When you get into a car crash, I’m not gonna have a fucking kid’s blood on my hands.”

“I’m not ask—fuck!” Steve doubles over, hands and keys pressing into his stomach. He crouches, tucks his head between his knees, and Dustin leans down beside him.

“You’re fucking pathetic, Harrington,” Billy snorts. “We’re going inside, I’m freezing my ass off.”

Dustin thinks Steve will protest, tell Billy to fuck off, stand up and start his BMW, but instead, he just sinks to his knees and _whines_ , and that’s so much worse. The knot in his throat reinstates, but instead of swallowing it down like before, he just lets it expand until tears fall from his eyes, because raindrops will wash them away anyway. “Steve, please,” he says.

Steve swallows. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Dustin. I’m fine, it just—fuck!— it just hurts.”

“Get up, pretty boy,” Billy says. “I swear to God, Harrington, I’ll carry your ass.”

For a moment, Steve is still, before he takes a breath, pinches the skin above his stomach, and straightens up. He takes an uneasy step forward, and Dustin tightens his fingers around his bicep.

They make it halfway to the front door before Steve crouches down once again. He spits into the mud. “‘M gonna throw up,” he says.

And he does.

He leans forward, producing a guttural retch and splattering vomit across the Hargrove’s grass. Dustin holds him up, one arm wrapped around his torso, the other still latched onto his bicep. Steve gags, and wipes away a string of saliva hanging from his lip with the back of his forearm. Then he stands up, and stumbles on his feet before continuing forward.

Billy sighs. “This is hard to watch. My grandmother can walk faster than you and she’s dead.” He strides toward Steve and Dustin, and grabs the former, one hand on the back of his neck, the other pulling his sweatshirt.

Billy Hargrove’s house doesn’t look like Dustin imagined.

He pictured empty beer cans sitting on the coffee table, and the kitchen counter, and the couches, cigarette packs and chip bags strewn every which way. Instead, it’s well maintained, pillows fluffed, blankets folded over chair heads. It smells fresh like cleaning detergent and burning candles.

Billy says, “Take off your shoes.” He pulls off his socks and curls them into his hand.

Dustin unties his All-Stars and pulls them off his feet, then he unties Steve’s and pulls them off his feet too, holding both pairs of shoes by their collars and placing them on a black rubber mat.

The house is dark, and although the power is out, Dustin thinks the Hargrove Residents always looks like that.

“My room’s over this way,” Billy says.

They walk through a dark hallway, then take a right through a doorway.

Billy Hargrove’s bedroom, on the other hand, looks exactly like Dustin imagined.

It’s lit up by five or six flashlights placed on various surfaces. The wallpaper, a cream-ish white, peels at the corners, old and stained. Posters are plastered to the walls and ceiling, some so raunchy and crude that Dustin wonders if he should even be seeing them. There are no photos of his family or friends, nor are their knick-knacks or certificates or trophies.

Billy releases Steve, darts across the room and to his dresser, tossing his socks in an overflowing hamper before rummaging through the drawers. “Put him on the floor for a second.”

Dustin frowns.

Billy pauses and narrows his eyes. “Do it, dipshit,” he hisses. “I’m getting him a change of clothes so he doesn’t get my bed all fucking wet.” Then, he adds, “Nevermind—” he pulls out an armful of items “—here, catch.”

The force of the throw smacks into the rim of Dustin’s baseball cap and the clothes fall to the floor. He crouches down and picks up a white hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. He folds them in his arms, and says, “Steve, do you think you can…?”

Steve nods, taking the clothes from Dustin. “Yeah. ‘M fine.” With some effort and steadying from Dustin, he pulls his soaked shirt over his head, drops it to the floor, and puts on Billy’s sweatshirt. He does the same with the pants, nearly stumbling and collapsing to the ground in the process.

By now, Billy’s changed, and holding another set of clothes. “Change, too,” he says to Dustin. This time, he walks over, hands Dustin a black long-sleeve and grey sweatpants, and grabs Steve’s arm. “Come on, pretty boy.” He leads Steve over to his bed and peels the blue plaid duvet back.

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s fine—”

“Fuck, Harrington, get in the fucking bed before I beat your face in again.”

Dustin pulls the shirt over his head. It hangs past the length of his arms, and he bunches it up and rolls it back.

Steve gets into the bed. He looks at Dustin, then says, “The fuck, Hargrove? He’s thirteen.”

Billy seems confused for a moment, then he looks over at Dustin and cackles. “Oh, shit, wrong shirt. Look on the bright side, Harrington, it’s the most action he’ll ever get.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“It was a gift from my dead grandmother. Have some respect.”

Dustin looks down. Sprawled across his chest is a picture of the top half of a woman, wearing nothing but a bikini much too small for her.

“Take the shirt off, Dustin,” Steve says.

He does.

Billy returns to his dresser, digs through it, then pulls out another long sleeve black shirt, this time plain. “Here, kid.” He tosses it to Dustin, and Dustin tosses the bikini shirt back. “So what am I supposed to do?” Billy asks. “I’m not a fucking doctor.”

Dustin shrugs, sitting down on the foot of Billy’s bed. “Do you have a thermometer?”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Dustin shrugs again.

Billy sighs. “Just walk over and feel his— Jesus.” He recoils his hand from Steve’s forehead, and his face pales. “There’s one in the bathroom,” he says, picking up a flashlight. “I’ll be right back.”

Once Billy’s gone, Dustin inches closer to Steve. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s okay, Dustin.” He winces. “Fuck, this hurts.”

“I know, bud.” Dustin leans forward, placing a hand on Steve’s cheek. “You’re burning up.”

“I hate that expression.”

“No other way to describe it.”

Billy emerges through the door a moment later and hands the thermometer to Dustin.

“Open your mouth, Steve.”

He does, and Dustin slips the thermometer under his tongue.

When it beeps, Steve pulls it from his mouth. “102,” he reads. “That’s not that bad.”

Dustin raises his eyebrows. “It’s not great,” he retorts.

Steve shrugs.

“What time is it?” Billy asks.

Dustin pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, squinting to read his watch. “One.”

Billy says, “I have to go pick up Maxine. I’m taking your car, Harrington, you fucking parked it in front of mine.”

“Don’t speed, dickhead.”

“I don’t,” Billy huffs.

“Please, Hargrove.”

“Okay.”

Dustin hands him Steve’s keys.

“Don’t fucking die while I’m gone.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bill Hargrove’s bed smells like smoke and alcohol and body spray, and Dustin would expect nothing less.

He lays on the left side of the mattress, propped up against the wall on a plaid pillow. Next to him, Steve is tangled beneath the duvet, one leg over and one leg under, head resting on Dustin’s stomach. His face is flushed and clammy and bright red, sweat beading down his forehead and soaking through Dustin’s shirt, sticking to his skin beneath it.

“Fuck,” Steve mumbles.

“I think we should take your hoodie off, Steve. You’re really hot.”

“Can’t.”

Dustin asks, “How bad?”

“Seven or eight.”

“You’ve never had it that high.”

“I know.”

Dustin runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. It’s wet and sticky, and he grimaces, but keeps going regardless.“Your hair gel is melting,” he says, and Steve grumbles into his stomach.

“Dustin… I don’t feel so good.”

Dustin lets out a sad sort of laugh. “I know, bud.”

Steve shifts, shaking his head, shoulders stiffening against Dustin. “No, something’s wrong. It—fuck—it hurts so bad.”

“Are you gonna throw up?”

“I don’t know. Fuck, it feels like a fucking knife—fuck!”

“Should we move to the bathroom?”

“I-I don’t think I can get up.”

“Okay.” Dustin thinks for a moment. “I’m gonna get up, okay?”

Steve nods, and Dustin shimmies himself from beneath the teen, maneuvering his head onto a pillow before pulling himself from the mattress. “Okay, Steve, raise your arms above your head,” he says.

“Can’t.”

Dustin sighs. “You have to. It’s making your fever worse.”

Steve shakes his head, pulling the duvet over his face. “Can’t, Dustin.”

“The longer you have a fever, the longer you have to be at Billy’s house.”

The teen raises his arms and curses under his breath. Dustin peels off the hoodie as carefully as he can, then folds it and places it on the bedside table, over a pack of cigarettes and a neon green comb. He reaches forward and pulls the duvet off of Steve. “Sorry,” he whispers, and Steve just shrugs.

“‘T’s okay.”

“Where does it hurt the most?” Dustin asks.

Steve brings a hand to his lower right abdomen, just above the hem of his sweatpants.

“Oh, shit, do you think it’s appendicitis?”

“I dunno. Don't swear.” Steve screws his eyes shut. “Whatever the fuck it is, it hurts.” He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his torso. “Fuck.”

“What happened to ‘no swearing?’”

“Fuck that.”

Dustin casts Steve a half-smile, and he gives him a contorted grimace in return. Then something in his face shifts, and he whimpers.

Steve Harrington doesn’t show discomfort.

Steve Harrington doesn’t rate a seven or an eight on the pain scale.

And Steve Harrington most definitely does not whimper.

“Steve…?”

“I’m f...fine.” Then he lurches forward, swallows hard, and whispers, “Bathroom.”

Dustin nods and tucks his arms under Steve’s armpits, hoisting him up as gentle as he can muster. Still, Steve lets out a whine and Dustin feels it like a punch to the gut. He steadies the boy against him, stumbling slightly under the pressure of the teen’s added weight, before hooking his hands around Steve’s torso.

He grabs a flashlight off Billy’s dresser on the way out, then turns down the hall and into a cramped bathroom. Steve collapses to his knees and lifts up the toilet seat, head hovering over the bowl as saliva strings from his bottom lip.

“Wait outside, Dustin,” he grumbles. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Dustin kneels down next to him. “Not a chance.”

“Please.”

“Steve, I’m not gonna—”

It doesn’t matter, because the next second Steve vomits, a raw, guttural convulsion. Dustin places his hand on the teen’s stomach, rubbing across it in a circular motion as it flips and contracts beneath his palm. Steve belches, gags, then retches again. “Hargrove’s gonna… he’s g-gonna....,” he hiccups. His body spasms and he coughs, spitting into the toilet water beneath his chin.“Fuck… this hurts…”

“Shh,” Dustin says. “I know, I know. It’s okay.” He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair.

“N-no, it hurts so bad… fuck.”

“Think you’re done?” Dustin asks, reaching up and grabbing a wad of toilet paper.

Steve nods, then leans back into Dustin, who wipes at his face and flushes the toilet. Steve buries his face, all hot and red and sweaty, in the crook of Dustin’s neck. He sobs into Dustin’s skin, fingers pinched so tight on his side that his knuckles turn white. “Nine,” he whispers.

“N-nine?”

“Nine.” He whimpers. “Fuck, Dustin.”

“I know, Steve, I know.”  
But he doesn’t know.

He has no fucking idea what to do.

And he’s terrified, sitting on the tile floor of Billy Hargrove’s bathroom in a blackout, cradling no other than _the_ King Steve as he cries into his shoulder.

Steve didn’t cry when Nancy Wheeler dumped him.

Steve didn’t cry when he learned that monsters aren't just the stuff of imagination.

Steve didn’t cry when Billy beat his face in two weeks ago. It was a four on the pain scale, tops.

But now he’s sobbing against Dustin, cheek hot on his neck, and it’s so terrifying and _wrong_ and raw.

It’s so everything that Steve is not.

“Dustin, can you leave?”

Dustin blinks. “What?”

“Please.”

“Steve—”

“I don’t want you to see me puke.”

“A little too late.” Dustin smiles softly at him.

“Dude….” Steve gags, stiffening against the boy’s chest and pushing himself forward. “Please. Just get water or… or something.”

Dustin nods and pulls himself off the ground. “Scream if you need anything.”

And as much as he hates it, he walks out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

He starts down the hallway, stopping in Billy’s room to snatch another flashlight before continuing into the kitchen. The cabinets are stained a deep copper, the handles round and black, and he has to stand on his tippy toes to reach the glass cups on the top shelf. His fingers hook around one with rough etching and he inches it forward with his palm, catching it with his free hand and turning on the tap. The water is hot at first, drizzling down the side of the cup and onto his pointer finger, and he waits a moment for it to cool. Outside, a strike of lightning cracks and he hears a thud from the street. He grabs the flashlight and trains it behind him, eyes sweeping back and forth across the living room. The sofa, recliner, and TV remain stationary. Water spills over the rim of the glass, pulling his focus back to the sink. He switches off the tap and takes a sip from the cup.

There are no pictures in the house, not of the Hargroves or of simple childhood art. Much like Billy’s room, there are no knick-knacks, or nice china Dustin shouldn't touch, or remnants and keepsakes. It looks like a staged house if staged houses were cold and dark and dead.

It’s much like Billy, really.

Glass in hand, Dustin begins back down the hall.

There’s a closed door to his right, paint chipping where wood meets hinges, and he looks around for a moment before wrapping his fingers around the knob and twisting it open. The room is painted a light blue like the sky and like blue-raspberry ice pops. He shines the flashlight on a floral print bedspread. Above it hang pictures of teenage idols and polaroids.

If Max knew he was in there, she’d kill him.

On a desk, between battered textbooks and stray papers, sits her walkie-talkie. Lucas had insisted she get one, and Mike almost popped a vein right then and there. Now, though, it looks lone sitting among litters of nothingness in the dark.

Her closet door is half-open, with a sweatshirt hanging by the hood on the doorknob. A pair of white-wash jeans are balled up at the foot of her bed, worn once to be worn again.

The room is so unlike Max, that although it carries a different type of liveliness from the rest of the house, it seems almost staged, too.

It’s like the skin of the child that her parents expect her to be, and the skin of the child that she wants to be, but that she’s not and will never be.

He closes the bedroom door.

And then there’s a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the comments, kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks! they truly do mean the world x 
> 
> is there anybody else you want to be added in? anyone in the tags will already appear


	3. Chapter 3

“Code red, code red, code red! Hello? Is anyone there? Code red—please, anyone! Lucas, Mike, Will, El, Erika, anyone! Code red, I repeat, code red!” 

Max’s walkie-talkie digs into his palm. He squeezes his finger around it, knuckles turning white, and its metal prongs bite at his skin. All that sounds from the other line is static and he wants to scream. He wants to scream because it reminds him of the time that no one answered his “Code-Red” about Dart so he had to recruit Steve, but now Steve is laying on the tile floor next to him whimpering and shouting and Dustin has no clue what to do. 

He kneels next to Steve but doesn’t touch him. He’s not sure why. Maybe because he’s scared to make it worse, or maybe because he’s scared to feel the rage of a fever. Most of all, maybe because he feels helpless, like only his lips are poking above water while the rest of his body just swims and suffocates in time with currents he can’t control. So instead he just sits there, screaming into a plastic piece of garbage. 

“Code red! What do you people not understand about code red?! Lucas, Mike, Will, please!” 

Steve groans next to him. He pulls himself up with his hands and leans against the bathtub, burying his face between his palms and his fingers. 

Dustin asks, “How you doing, bud?”

Steve doesn’t lookup. “It’s… I think it’s dying down.” 

“What’s it now?” 

“Seven.” He grimaces, swallows hard, and brings a hand to his side. “Maybe seven and a half.” 

Dustin says into the walkie-talkie, “Code red, you assholes.” Then he turns to Steve: “I’m getting reinforcements.” 

“I told you not to s-swear, dipshit. And no, I’m… I’m fine.” 

“Oh, yeah, clearly.” Dustin sits down next to Steve, their thighs touching, backs pushed against the white of the bathtub. 

Steve says, with a voice soft and timid and so very unlike Steve, “I don’t need a bunch of thirteen-year-olds’ help.” 

“Actually, Lucas is fourteen—” 

“Oh, well nevermind then, let’s see the M.D.” 

“—and we’re not as useless and dumb as you think.” 

And it seems so invalid and hypocritical and venomous coming off of his tongue, because he doesn’t even believe it himself. 

He’s done nothing to help Steve. 

He brought him to Billy Hargrove’s house because he’s so useless and dumb and incapable and everything else wrong in the world. 

And now he can’t even get ahold of anyone helpful. 

If Steve were dying, Dustin would be the one killing him. 

Maybe Steve is dying. 

Hell if he knows. 

He breathes into the speaker of the walkie-talkie and whispers, so exasperated and feeble and failed, “Code red.” 

Steve says, “You know I know you’re not stupid, Dustin. Fuck, kid, you’re a hell of a lot smarter than I’ll ever be. And—ow—and it’s not that I don’t trust you guys… I do. It’s just that I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking out for you, not the other way around.” He pinches the skin above his abdomen. 

“We’re friends, Steve. We look out for each other, that’s what friendship is.” 

The walkie-talkie crackles to life. From the other line, with a voice intercepted with static, Will asks, “Hello? Are you okay?” 

Dustin whispers to Steve, “And let me help you.” Then he flicks on the speaker and says, “Will, I need help. Where’s Jonathan?” 

There’s a knock on the front door no more than ten minutes later. 

Dustin pulls it open, directing his flashlight to Jonathan and Will Byers, who stand dripping in the rain. “Thanks,” he says. 

Jonathan nods and comes inside. 

“Take off your shoes,” Dustin says. “Or Billy’ll get mad.” 

Jonathan leans against the wall, and Will leans against him, pulling their shoes off in unison and placing them on the black mat next to Dustin and Steve’s. 

“Where’s Steve?” Jonathan asks, peeling a yellow rain jacket from his arms. He grabs Will’s blue one and hangs them on the coat rack next to the mat. 

“Over this way, in the bathroom.” 

Dustin leads them down the hallway like he lives there, like Billy Hargrove had led him and Steve no earlier than a few hours ago, and he grimaces at the thought. They walk past the living room and the kitchen and Max’s room, and Dustin feels like he’s stepped into someone else's life, an intruder in his own skin and Billy’s black shirt.

When they enter the bathroom, Steve says, “I don’t need your help, Byers.” 

Jonathan raises his eyebrows. “Clearly. Then why are you sitting on the bathroom floor?” 

Steve looks up at him, skin creasing around the eyes as he squints down the head of the flashlight. He shrugs, then pushes himself up slightly, wincing and concealing it into a smirk. “I like it.” 

“You like sitting on the floor next to a toilet in Billy Hargrove’s house?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Steve…” 

“I can’t get up.” He shakes his head, then wraps his arms around his torso. His face is flushed, emphasized further beneath the stare of the flashlight, and sweat blotches his forehead and cheeks and hair. 

Jonathan says, “All right, lemme help you.” He crouches down next to Steve and grabs his bicep. “Ready?” 

“No, I-I think I can do it.” 

Jonathan doesn’t let go, and Steve pushes himself up into a standing position. He grunts and brings a hand to his stomach. “Easy,” he wheezes. 

“Where’s Billy’s room?” Jonathan asks. He maneuvers his shoulder under Steve’s arm and wraps one arm around his torso, propping him up. 

Steve says, “Down there,” and points out the door and to the right. 

“Okay.” Jonathan turns to Dustin and Will. “Can you guys go find us anything you think would be helpful? Like water or medication or something?” 

“Yeah.” 

Once they’re back in the kitchen, Will says, “It’s so weird being in Max’s house.”

Dustin nods. “Yeah, I know. I feel like I’ve been here a lifetime.” He tugs open a cupboard. 

“Anything good?” 

“Spices.” He closes it. 

“Wait, so why are you here, again? At Max’s, I mean.” Will rummages through the fridge, a square of light enlarging and constricting on the floor as he pushes against the doors. 

“I didn’t have a choice. Steve literally couldn’t drive anymore. I could have pulled a Max, I guess.” Dustin shrugs. In the pantry, he finds a pack of Saltines and tucks them under his arm. 

Will asks, “Is Billy really as scary as everyone says he is?” 

“I—” the front doorknob jiggles — “I guess you’re about to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i reread the previous chapter, i realized that i have a cursing problem. i tried to cut down this chapter. though, you know who is making a comeback in part four so i guess we'll have to see. 
> 
> the support on the last chapter utterly blew me away. from the bottom of my hear, thank you. in thanks, i tried to feed you and get this up asap (between test and school) so i apologize for the shortness. 
> 
> oh, and @/Aristida02, here you go, you little piranha ;)  
> ( i hope you enjoy it and i hope it lives up to the wait !)
> 
> feedback and any plot suggestions are highly welcome <3


	4. Chapter 4

“I don’t fucking know,” Billy is saying as he closes the door behind him.

Max snorts, “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t fucking know, Maxine, and you’re giving me a headache.”

Dustin points his flashlight at them. “Finally,” he says. They’re untying their shoes, Max sitting on the floor, foot in her lap, and Billy leaning against the wall.

“Sorry for the fucking inconvenience, Henderson. A tree fell.” Billy looks up, squaring his eyes and training them on Will. He asks, “Who are you?”

“Will Byers.”

Max says, “He’s Jonathan Byers’ little brother.”

“If Jonathan Byers is here, I’m gonna shit myself,” Billy growls. Then, to Dustin: “And then I’m gonna fucking break every bone in your body.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Dustin says. “Steve got worse.”

Billy’s face twists into a smirk. “‘Cause he’s a little bitch.”

“No, Billy, seriously, it’s really bad.”

He thinks Billy may punch him. He thinks he may spit at him with poison and with venom, or howl in his face with teeth jagged poking out of bleeding gums.

And Dustin curls in on himself because Billy Hargrove seems a lot bigger from afar.

But, instead, Billy just nods.“Where is he?” He doesn’t say it in a concerned way, but not in an amused way either. The statement is indifferent, and so is Billy's face.

“In your bedroom.”

When they reach Billy’s room, Steve is laying on the bed, head to the right and stuffed in a pillow, the duvet over his face, and Jonathan sits by his feet awkwardly, one hand placed on Steve’s foot. He straightens up when they walk in, fingers retracting from what Dustin can only assume is Steve’s ankle.

“This is the most pathetic fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Jonathan meets Billy’s eyes, and Dustin didn’t think the former had it in him to look at the teen with such disdain and venom, yet sincerity and vulnerability. “Hi, Billy,” Jonathan says. He smiles at Dustin and Will. “What’d you guys get?”

Dustin brandishes the cracker packet. “Just this.”

“No medicine?”

Dustin shrugs.

Billy says, “There’s some in the bathroom. Got get it, Maxine.”

“What type?”

“Do I look like a fucking Doctor to you?”

Jonathan asks, “Do you have Advil?”

“Probably,” Max replies. “I’ll go check. Will, will you come with me?”

Will nods, and Max smiles at him. Dustin hands her the flashlight and watches as its glow bounces down the hallway.

“I don’t think Advil’s gonna do jackshit,” Steve grumbles.

“And he lives,” Dustin says. He walks over to Steve and crouches in front of him, pulling back the covers so he can see his face. He looks the same as before, still flushed red and leaking sweat, eyes still callused with fever. “How’re you feeling?”

Steve quips, “Great.” He brings the covers to his midsection, revealing the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“Your hair looks like ass,” Billy says. 

“Your face looks like ass.”

“What a brilliant comeback, Harrington, you really got me there.”

“Fuck you.”

“Gladly.”

Steve pouts and shifts into Dustin, head lulling against the boy’s chest. Dustin grimaces at the heat penetrating the fabric of his shirt, moisture pushing up against his skin.

“Are you thirsty?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head.

“You’re gonna get dehydrated, Steve,” Jonathan says.

“Don’t wanna throw up again.”

Billy: “Too bad.” Then, screaming: “Maxine, get water!”

Steve pulls up the covers.

“You cold?” asks Dustin.

He nods.

Dustin plants a hand on the teen’s forehead. “You feel really hot. Where’s the thermometer?”

Jonathan says, “It’s right here,” and plucks the thermometer off the nightstand. “Open your mouth, Steve.”

Steve mumbles, “I c’n do it.” He grabs the thermometer, sticking it under his tongue. It beeps and he pulls it out. “102.9.”

“That’s pretty high, Steve,” Jonathan tells him.

Max walks back in the room, pills and water in hand, and Will trails behind her. “Here,” she says, handing them to Jonathan.

He gives her a nod and turns to the teen.“Here, Steve, I need you to take these.” He pulls off the top of the bottle, shaking out two blue pills.

Dustin’s starting to feel a little more contempt as he watches Steve swallow down the pills, sit up slightly, and allow Jonathan to rub his back, until the teen says, “I’m gonna throw up,” and Billy fucking Hargrove is the one who yanks him by shoulder, half-drags, half-carries him down the hallway, and shuts the bathroom door behind them.

When Dustin pushes open the door, Steve’s head is in the toilet and Billy is leaning against the bathtub.

Billy looks up and makes tired eye contact with Dustin, but doesn’t yell at him or tell him to get out, scram. He doesn’t grow two heads and bite, nor does he morph into a big-boned creature with razors for eyes.

He just sits, legs sprawled out and foot touching Steve, fingers tracing in between the tile beneath him. “What do you want?” he asks, but it isn't bitter or malevolent in its nature, just indifferent.

Dustin’s starting to think that indifference is the only thing to Billy. His only substance, skin and flesh and bones. He wonders if there’s something beneath it.

“I brought you a flashlight,” Dustin says, rolling it across the floor to Billy.

Steve grumbles, voice reverberating off the porcelain, “Get out, D-Dustin. I don't want -" He gags, swallows hard, then whines.

“Don’t hold it in, dumbass,” Billy says. “You’re making it hurt more.”

Steve winces, bringing a hand to cup over his side. “It already hurts…”

“Then puke.”

“I can’t, Hargrove.”

“Yeah, you can. Grow the fuck up.”

“Ow, fuck, I… I can’t.” He squeezes his eyes shut, both arms wrapping around his torso as he curls in on himself.

Dustin wants to hug him or hold him or at least goddamn rub his back, but he’s scared to touch him and he’s not supposed to be there so instead he just stands there, useless.

Again.

Billy pushes himself up and crawls across the floor. He places a hand on Steve’s stomach and the teen flinches hard, and Dustin constricts his fingers around the doorknob because even though Billy Hargrove can bite, he can bite harder when it comes down to Steve.

But Billy doesn’t bend Steve in the curve of his teeth or sink into his flesh with talons and drain his blood. He doesn’t tear open Steve’s rib cage, rip out his still-beating heart, and eat it.

If he did, he’d be a monster.

And Billy Hargrove isn’t all monster.

“Relax,” he hisses. “I’m trying to help you.”

Billy uncurls Steve and places his hands on his stomach, pressing into his skin.

Steve retches and lurches forward, and Billy guides his head over the toilet. “I swear to God, Harrington, if you puke on the tile.”

Steve doesn’t, instead throwing up all the contents of his stomach into the toilet. After a moment, he raises his head, then gags, and Billy pushes his head back down, pressing against his stomach again.

Billy doesn’t grimace when bile hits water, or when drool hangs from Steve’s lips as his head hovers over the toilet, or when Steve says in a raw voice and between sobs, “H-Hargrove, stop.” His breath hitches and he convulses, swallowing down hard.

“You know I can’t do that,” Billy replies, and he gives Steve’s stomach another squeeze.

“Please—” he vomits again.

Then again.

And then Billy pushes on his stomach one last time, and he does again.

When the retching stops, he makes no effort to move, and Billy asks. “Are you done?”

“Mhmmm.” Steve leans back against Billy’s chest, and Billy doesn’t push him off or shout at him or tell him to fuck off.

Instead, he says, “Well, that was fucking disgusting,” but his face is soft, and Dustin thinks it may be a joke.

Steve whispers, “B-Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“I… I think ...I…I’m gonna pass out.”

And he does.


	5. Chapter 5

Dustin isn’t sure when he starts hollering for Jonathan, nor is he sure why, because Billy seems to have everything under control.

He pulls Steve off the tile, leaning the latter against his chest, says to Dustin, “He’s fine, kid,” then turns on the bath.

“What are you doing?” Dustin asks.

“I saw in a movie that if you put someone with a fever in a cold bath it helps bring it down.” He pauses for a moment, jerking into action as Steve lulls in the crook of his arm. “Damnit, Harrington!”

Jonathan bursts through the door, kids trailing. “W-what’s going on?”

“Steve passed out,” Dustin replies, trying to keep the edge in his voice at bay.

It’s not working.

“Maxine,” Billy says. “Go get ice from the freezer.”

“How much?”

“I don’t fucking know, how ever many bags there are!”

“But Neil—”

Billy bites, “I don’t fucking care what Neil thinks.” He turns to Jonathan. “Get your ass in gear.”

Together, Jonathan and Billy lift Steve into the bath, sweatpants and all. For a moment, the boy doesn’t move.

“Put his head under,” Billy orders.

Dustin says, “No—”

“You want him to fucking die?” And then Billy winces like he didn’t mean it to be so harsh, so vulnerable and so open.

Jonathan: “Come on, Hargrove. He’s a kid.”

“Just put Harrington's head under.”

And they do, fingers wrapping around Steve’s hair and forcing his skull beneath the water. Max comes into the room a moment later, an ice bag in each hand. She and Will rush to empty them into the bathwater, cold sliding down Steve’s bare chest.

Dustin bites back his tongue. He’s not sure what he wants to say, what he can do, but he just feels so damn useless.

Steve shakes to life beneath the surface. He writhes for a moment against Billy’s and Jonathan’s hold, and they pull his head up.

“C-cold,” Steve whispers.

Jonathan says, “I know. You’ve got a fever.”

“Don’t feel like it.” He moves to get up, then hisses and brings a hand to his abdomen. “Wh-where’s Dustin?” he asks.

And Dustin’s heart shatters. It’s both a nice feeling, knowing that even in delirium Steve wants him, begs for him, but it burns too because he should be the one at the teen’s side, not Billy-Fucking-Hargrove.

“Right here, Steve,” Dustin says. He grabs onto Steve’s grasping hand and neals down next to the edge of the tub, next to Billy Hargrove.

Steve watches him through eyes glazed with fever. He scans him up and down, looks through him, past him.

Dustin says again, “Right here.”

“There’s something wrong, Dustin,” Steve replies, eyes still wavering. “I feel weird. I wanna get out.”

“I know.” He turns to Billy. “How much longer?”

Billy shrugs. “I don’t know. You wanna get out, Harrington?”

Steve nods. Billy and Jonathan grab under his armpits, helping him forward, and he yelps. He whines, actually whines, “Can’t move,” and the boys release him.

“Okay,” Jonathan replies after a moment. “Lemme think.” his eyes glance around for a moment, before he tells Steve, “We’re gonna drain the tub.” He leans forward and clicks the lever behind Steve’s back down. The water squeals as suction pulls it down.

Steve lays his head against the rim of the bathtub. “Feel weird.” He huffs.

“I think we should take him to a hospital,” Jonathan says to Billy.

“Okay.”

“Do you have clothes we can change him into?”

“Yeah. Maxine, can you go to my closet and get a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie?”

Max says, “I don’t know which ones. You get him some.”

“And what? You’ll fucking catch him if he passes out. Go get any, I don’t care which.”

Max nods, and she and Will filter out of the bathroom.

Steve doesn’t protest like Dustin thought he would, and somehow the silence is worse. By now, the water’s almost full drained, and Dustin pulls off his socks and steps in the tub, feet between Steve’s legs. He crouches down. “I’m gonna have to pull your pants off, Steve, is that okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay… it might hurt.” As gently as he can muster, Dustin shimmies the sweatpants off the teen.

Steve sucks in a sharp breath of air and Dustin grimaces. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“‘S ok-kay.”

“Do these work?” Max asks, pushing open the door. She brandishes a set of black sweatpants and a similar hoodie.

“Yeah. Give ‘em here,” Billy responds.

“Ready, Steve?” Jonathan asks.

Steve nods.

“All right, raise your arms above your head.”

Steve does so, yelping in the process and biting his lip as Billy and Jonathan pull the shirt over his head and shoulders. Billy tosses Dustin the sweatpants and he pulls them over Steve’s legs.

Then Jonathan says, “I’m gonna carry you, Steve, okay?”

Steve hums, shutting his eyes as Jonathan wraps his arms around his middle. Jonathan pulls him up and out of the bathtub, then stumbles under the weight and Steve winces.

Billy hisses, “For fuck’s sake - here, I got it.” He grabs Steve from Jonathan, holding him bridal style.

“Open the door!” Billy says once they’ve reached the front door.

Max complies while Dustin, Will, and Jonathan pull on their shoes.

It’s still raining as they run across the grass, Billy in his socks.

Steve mumbles something.

“What?” Billy grunts.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Steve says.

Billy nods, lowering Steve to the ground. They crouch, and Steve holds his head in his hands. He stays like that for a moment, rain dirtying his fresh clothes and Billy’s socks before he gags. Then he heaves forward, and Billy steadies his shoulders. “I-I hate this,” he whispers.

“Don’t worry about it, can't be worse than earlier.”

Somehow, though, it is, and Dustin winces as Steve brings up mouthful after mouthful of vomit.

“Jesus, Harrington, slow down.”

“‘m-’m trying.”

Steve hiccups, then a choked sob escapes him. Dustin wants to rush forward, but Steve’s back is turned and Billy Hargrove is standing watch like a guard dog.

“You think you’re done?” Billy asks after a few moments of silence.

Steve nods, and Billy flings the boy’s arm around his shoulder. They stagger the rest of the way to Billy's car. He pulls it open and sets Steve in the passenger's seat.

Jonathan asks, “We’re taking your car?”

“What does it look like? It’s the closest one.” He pulls a set of keys from his pocket, tossing them to Jonathan. “And I’m not going.”

Steve mumbles, “You’re not?”

“I’ve got a lot of cleaning to do.”

Dustin and Will get in the backseat, closing the doors.

“Are you sure, Billy?” Jonathan says. “About taking your car?”

“Yeah.” His face stiffens. “I didn’t wanna walk him any farther, he smells like ass. Listen, if he gets any vomit in it, I swear to God...”

Jonathan laughs. “Thanks. For everything.”

Billy shrugs. “He came to my door.”  
As Jonathan gets in the driver's seat and turns of the car, Billy leans down by Steve.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Billy says. “See you Tuesday, first period math.”

And he shuts Steve’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so hypothetically there are two options from here: 1) end the fic here.  
> 2) the roads are blocked and some at-home surgery must be performed. if the latter, it will obviously be kinda unrealistic but it's fiction and it's our story and we can do whatever we want because whump! 
> 
> regardless, and if this is where the story ends, thank you for all the love, truly.


	6. Chapter 6

“What do you mean there’s a tree?”

“I mean there’s a fucking tree!”

Dustin hops out of the backseat of Billy’s car and into the rain. It rushes down, pattering down his cheeks and to the pavement below. Will’s at his side in an instant, his arms wrapped around his chest in an effort to retain some semblance of warmth. The tree before them has taken a powerline down with it, the spine of the tree wrapped around the wire sprawling across the road. “Fuck!” Dustin shouted.

Jonathan rolled down his window and stuck his arm out, waving them back in. “Come on!” he hollers. “We’ll try the other way!”

Steve’s still slumped in the passenger's seat with one hand over his eyes and the other pressed firmly to his right side. He winces as Dustin and Will pile back into the car and slam the doors shut. The other end of the street is a dead-end, and Jonatan looks moments away from panic as he pulls the car into reverse and does a u-turn. His face scrunches tight.

“What’s goin on?” Steve mumbles.

“We’re fucked,” Dustin hisses, then pats Steve on the shoulder and softens his voice. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

Billy looks equally unimpressed the second time they pull up and knock on his front door. Will and Dustin are each holding up a side of Steve as Jonathan parks Billy’s car back in the driveway. “The fuck?” Billy demands, grabbing hold on Steve’s shoulder as the latter’s sways.

“There’s a tree down. We can’t get through.”

“Drive on someone’s fuckin lawn, then.”

Dustin ignores him and tugs Steve closer. The older boy’s head had begun to lull, his eyes half-lidded. “Come on, Steve. Stay with me, all right?” Steve nods, and then grimaces, biting his lips so hard they crack. His face strains with the pressure of holding back a scream, and Dustin brushes back his hair. “That bad?” he whispers into Steve’s ear. Steve nods.

“Well get him the fuck inside, you dipshits,” Billy says, grabbing Steve’s arm and helping to pull him inside. “You’re not gonna puke again, are you, Harrington?” he asks as they mull through the halfway and back into Billy’s room. Steve doesn’t reply, and Billy worries at his lip.

Jonathan’s back by the time Steve’s sprawled out across the bed, and his face splinters into one of unease. “Sorry, man,” he says to Billy. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Harrington just can’t get enough of me.” Billy’s tone isn’t bright or amused. His eyes flit to the ground for a moment, then up at Max as she appears in the doorway. She’s holding a mixing bowl.

Steve looks up at her, his eyes glassy and dark, then croaks something Dustin can’t quite make out. Max frowns, then opens her mouth to speak as Jonathan lunges foard and grabs the bowl from her hands. He thrusts it under Steve’s chin and places a hand on his back as Steve vomits. Steve yelps and strings of saliva drip down his lips, and he brings a hand to his right side. Max’s lips curl into a grimace. “I think he has appendicitis,” she says finally. In her other hand, Dustin realizes with a certains sense of horror, she holds a knife.

Billy scans her face then the knife in her hand. “The fuck is that for?”

“I think you know what it’s for.” She sighs. “Appendicitis can kill. You gotta take it out fast or it’ll burst.”

“I’m not fucking cutting open Harrington.” He looks back over at Steve. He’s still hovered over the bowl, Jonathan with a hand running up and down his spine. Jonathan’s eyes are wide. Billy looks back at Max. “You’re fucking insane.”

“There’s no power, so we can’t call anyone, remember?” She walks forward and places a hand on Steve’s head. He’s leaned back by now, his face flushed, his chest heaving. “His fever’s really high.”

“Maxine, I’ll kill him.”

“I don’t think it’s that hard. Mom has some medical journals around here somewhere; I’ll find them. You get everything ready.”

Steve’s laid out on the bathroom floor, stretched out a layer of saran wrap, towels, and paper bags. Will and Dustin are sitting by his head, Dustin holding Steve’s hand. The older boy’s eyes are closed and his face is twisted into a scowl. Billy drugged him up with some of Susan’s medication, so he’s drowsy but still aware. Billy’s holding the knife, his eyes drained of any light, and Jonathan is havering behind him. Max is sitting on the closed toilet, a book in her lap. “Start with an incision to the right of his belly button—no, lower!”

Billy’s hands were shaking something fierce. “Don’t move, Harrington,” he whispered. He placed the knife on Steve’s stomach, then pushed down, drawing a line of blood across.

Steve screamed, his eyes flying open and his fingers digging into Dustin’s hand. Dustin brought his eyes away from the blood to look at Steve’s instead. “Shhhh,” he hushed. “You’re fine. Well, not really, but you will be.”

Max was mumbling more things to Billy, and Steve was screaming more. Blood slid down his chest and onto the coverings on the floor. Tears pooled in his eyes, and began to spill out when Billy made the third incision. Billy looked up for a moment, his face softening from how it’d been twisted into a hard grimace, and guilt wrapped behind his eyes. He patted Steev’s thigh. “Sorry, man,” he whispered, so quietly Dustin wasn’t even sure Steve could hear.

“Billy,” Steve mumbled, sobs pulling at his throat. “P-please.” He screamed again. “Pl-please, Billy.” Billy just shook his head.

Will had left at one point, and Jonathan seems moments away from doing so himself. He’s gone pale, his face buried in his shoulder and his hand wrapped around Steve’s ankle.

Steve begins to gag, and Jonathan grabs the bowl and hands it to Dustin, who shoved it under Steve’s chin. Dustin plays with Steve’s hair as he retches, and he isn't quite sure if he'd rather look down or at the bloody mess on the floor. 

Billy’s hands are shaking as he pulls up something long and thin and places it in the trash. 

“Okay,” Max says. “Good.” Her voice shakes. “Now you gotta stitch it.” 

Steve pulls his head back from the bucket and places it in Dustin’s lap. He looked up at him and whispered, “Ten.” Then, “I’m gonna pass out.” 

“That’s probably for the better.” 

Billy stitches up Steve’s side, carries him back to the bed, then rushes to the bathroom to scrub his hands of the blood. Dustin curls up next to Steve, his head on the sleeping boy’s chest. Will and Jonathan sit on the floor, and Max sits on the end of the bed, her legs pulled to her chest. 

When Billy returns, he changes and throws an extra blanket onto Steve and Dustin. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m never gonna live this down. He gets up and makes his way out of the room. “Call me when he makes up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes, sorry.... but, surprise? 
> 
> i know this is highly unrealistic but i wanted to do something for you all because you've been angels


End file.
